


Parisian Pirates

by Dousenmi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Annoyed Mycroft Holmes, Fluff, France (Country), Introspection, M/M, Touring, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-11-23 17:57:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11407569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dousenmi/pseuds/Dousenmi
Summary: His memories of that time are fuzzy, like how most childhood memories are. He remembers being cold and wet and scared, and then bright sunlight, and Uncle Rudy’s face.





	1. Land of Hope and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone!  
> I've been at the fringes of ao3 and this fandom for quite awhile, just reading my way through piles of good stories. I've finally decided to put the ideas in my head to paper (or keyboard) and this is one of the results. Hope it's not too bad, and hope you enjoy it too! So the following is my first contribution to this fandom; concrit welcome! I don't have a beta, and it isn't Brit-picked, so any mistakes are mine; feel free to point it out! Thank you!

Victor had never been to the UK.

This wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary if he’d lived anywhere else, but London is just 2 hours away by train and Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond and James May had crossed the Channel on floating _cars_ , for goodness’ sake. It seems only natural that he’d gone there for a bout of sightseeing like so many French do, except that he hadn’t.

But then again he could always live vicariously through the TV, couch travel, savouring the sights without the rain:

Top Gear, his stalwart companion on cars, David Attenborough, his ever omniscient presence on the Earth, Mary Barry, on cakes, and The X Factor, and The Great British Bake−Off, and Jamie Oliver, and Eastenders, and Fawlty Towers and - 

Ah, the BBC, another quest in his life to find out more about The Other Side without actually popping over, which was ridiculous really, considering the distance. He supposes he’d never see the place of his birth in his lifetime, though he knows for a fact that he’s British. He may love macarons and eclairs and speak French without a horrendous accent but he knows at heart that he’s not really French. It’s conflicting, he knows, but he can’t help learning the bagpipes and deep frying perfectly good fish even after he’s learnt countless other instruments and tasted cuisines the world over. He wonders if this is what all those experts go on about, about the Children Without a Nation and displacement and all those fuzzy concepts that get people feeling sorry for themselves.

Victor doesn’t feel sorry for himself, not really; he’s learnt to replace The Other Side with other places, and by thirty he’s been to 134 countries and sampled 235 unique experiences. He doesn’t know why his parents avoid _ces pays_ but he’s learnt not to ask. He’s also learnt not to suggest even going anywhere near after his parents almost begged him not to go on that particular exchange programme. China was where he’d gone in the end, and learnt its language and music and food and nuances, and he tells himself he’s not compensating.

Still, he can’t help loving his parents’ (and his own) accent; (it’s Norfolk, he’s found after some research – his parents would never tell him), as well as indulge in various breads and scones. It’s the closest he’ll ever come, mentally at least, since he’d oftentimes dipped his toes in the water at Côte de Granit Rose, but he supposes it’s better than nothing. Nowadays he speaks only English with his parents, emulating all their undropped Hs and their non-rhotic Rs in an effort to retain his accent.

Victor fancies himself English−French (with a bit of Welsh thrown in). His cosy little flat in the 18ème arrondissement is arrayed with the artefacts to show off that. A ceramic bulldog sits on his desk (it’s a useful paperweight), the sofa has more Union Jack cushions than it can hold (it’s comfortable, makes the sofa feel like a bed); the Beatles and The Rolling Stones claim a whole shelf. It looks like the secret abode of a closeted Anglophile, if Victor doesn’t open his mouth and reveals himself to be from L’Angleterre.

Not that he ever spoke English in front of anyone other than his parents; the French love French, and he doesn’t want to shatter the illusions of tourists who feel they’ve stepped into a fairytale and think France’s all roses and champagne and French. How narrow−minded, obviously France has pinot noir and chardonnay and rose as well as lavender and immortelle. Roses aren’t really for gifting anyway, they’re more suited for Chanel.

It’s not just things too, no those are too superficial, he _feels_ British, he feels it deep in his bones and his stomach as he eats Jaffa cakes and downs freshly brewed tea, one out of 52 varieties in his pantry, from an antique flowered gold−rimmed tea set, made with water from a fancy specialised kettle that sets the temperature depending on what tea is being made. Yes, he calls herbal and floral teas _teas_ , he’s not going around telling people he drinks chrysanthemum _infusions_ , it sounds like an euphemism. But because he’s also French he stocks his pantry with 22 varieties of coffee along with a coffee sock and a V cone and a coffee drip and a French press in his kitchen.

Everything else is British, other than his fridge (buy local!), and his bathroom. He loves his handmade soaps from Nice, he has one of each flavour; and his perfume from Provence; and his soothing bath fizzers that cure all worries.

Fortunately, he’s never been conflicted about his sense of self; he likes to think he’s well−adjusted, that he can be English and French at the same time and is spared the deep soul−thinking about his culture that others do.

It is enough, Victor doesn’t need to know why they left, what they were running from, because they were definitely running, he quite remembers waking up after the cold and the darkness and found himself in the bright sunniness of southern France.


	2. Uncle Rudy's best laid plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! The second chapter's up! I'm a bit nervous about how this story's going. It's my first time writing and I feel as if I pale in comparison to the many wonderful writers here on ao3, practically every fic I read has really good writing, in terms of differentiation in tone, description, setting, world-building and characterisation. But I'm taking the first step and hopefully I'll improve with time.

Victor’s parents live in one of those quaint stone cottages with front and back gardens full of blooms and edibles that evoke the scent of the French countryside. It’s just a little more than an hour out of Paris, yet it made a huge difference. Maybe that was what they were running from, the lights of the big city. Sure they could have settled in the British countryside, but everyone knows France does countryside best, where it’s bright and optimistic like how a quaint village life is supposed to be.

Letting himself in, Victor walks down the stone pathway he loves, taking in the scents of the flowers in bloom and the fresh produce, and what he is most definitely sure is his mother’s mushroom soup. And− he sniffs more carefully, wild garlic! The scent is unmistakeable. Very useful plant, that. The carrots look ready too, judging by their lush green leaves; he can’t wait to try, it’s a new cultivar in the Trevor garden. And there, in that sunny garden, looking at the carrots and smelling the pungent odour of the wild garlic he finds himself wondering if he should try again.

Back then he’d tried, after first earning his parents’ favour by harvesting the greens from the greenhouse.

“Maman”, he’d ventured, “Il y a un programme d'échange à L’Angleterre pour 6 mois. Tous les étudiants pourveient aller.”

“Hmm?” she’d hummed noncommittally, her hands full with washing.

“Je voudrais aller, s’il vous plait?” he’d rushed out in one breath, eager to receive her approval before she comprehended the question.

His mother had been horrified. “No! What d’you want to return to that dreadful place for?”

The French hadn’t worked after all, for what his mother lacked in her French intelligibility she made up for in her uncanny ability to detect when he was trying to hoodwink her, especially regarding the place they don’t talk about. This seemed to be a universal skill of mothers; Jean could never fool his either.

Well, it was worth a try regardless.

His mother had yammered on as he sorted the vegetables, “Dreadful place! Horrid! All rain and fog! Full of the most unsavoury types!”

Compost bin, Farmers’ market, for preserving. He elected not to mention that they would, by default, be those “unsavoury types” as well. The rhubarbs were looking good, too bad their tart taste combined with the crisp texture didn’t agree with him, all the better to fetch a pretty penny then.

“What’s going on?” his father had returned then, basket of fruits in arm, to the sight of Victor’s mother working herself into a strop.

“That son of yours wants to go back there! After we’ve taken the pains to come here!”

So his parents had really been after a quiet agrarian lifestyle in the French countryside then? Or maybe they were running from the Crown.

His father had turned to him then, with a gentle smile plastered on his weathered but still handsome face, “why don’t you try somewhere else son? Someplace far away and exciting perhaps? I’ve heard the programme offers stints in China as well, Dubai, Russia, America, Japan.”

And he’d winked.

His father knew him all too well, he had felt himself relenting. The travel bug had caught early, back when he was only just reading books about and set in far−flung places. Caught hold it had, and infused him with a wanderlust so strong sometimes he thinks he’ll stifle just from staying in Paris for too long.

And so he’d kept quiet and settled the ache in his chest. Maybe Britain wasn’t all he’d made it up to be, with its strange emotional detachment, wonderful carbohydrates, different accents. Absence makes the heart grow fonder after all.

China had been colourful, and vibrant, full of enticing smells and titillating sounds. Those months he’d kept his eyes peeled and ears open, learning to parse between sounds to make out words, and the myriad languages. Beijing was majestic, grand, the old mingling with the new; Shanghai modern, full of hopes and dreams and the materialism of any metropolis; Guangzhou and Wuhan plebeian in their leapfrogging roads and skyscrapers of pencil−pushers; Xi An was charming, where he felt at ease and breathed in the scent of ancient walls, Urumqi was where he fell in love, wandering the alleyways and the markets, immersing himself in the vibrancy that arose from the diverse melting pot; and Lhasa, oh Lhasa where he felt at one with the wind and the sky and at the top of the world and where he needn’t think at all (though perhaps the lack of oxygen contributed to the latter).

And the languages! The food! The music! How much he learnt from that one trip alone that was more than what he could have learnt from books and the Internet. And of course the markets, did he mention the markets? Jewellery and pretty clothes, and at prices that won’t break the bank.

When he’d returned to France he’d continued on the euphoria from that trip, and threw himself into his studies with renewed vigour and an appreciation for life that constantly reminded him how much there was to know and learn.

And after that as he went on to work and travelled the world over except for the island across the sea the sight reassured his parents.

Until news of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective leapt across the Channel and made it even into French news. Only a small column, but still it piqued Victor’s interest, differing from the monotony of political information that made up the usual overseas news.

The cases were indeed curious, and the man who solved them even more so. His methods weren’t entirely unconventional, despite how the media paints it, just a bit of observation and forensic skills, then extrapolated. A lot. It seemed to do the trick though, and Victor supposed, if one looked at it head on it might seem like magic.

From that first column on Sherlock Holmes became another Brit product through which Victor lived vicariously, it certainly helped that there were _two_ blogs.

It was on one of those occasions when Victor was religiously reading the latest case when he’d heard his parents’ worried whispers.

“…Holmes…, wonder what happened to Eurus…” that particular name in his mother’s worried tones had been enough for Victor to strain to catch the conversation.

“…Rudy…no one…protect Victor…” Rudy…Rudy…Uncle Rudy?  

“…cannot…what if…change names…” now that had been getting worrisome. Had his parents fled due to Holmes? Hardly, he was the same age. The Holmes family then?

And Uncle Rudy, none of his relatives he knew of had that name. He vaguely remembered calling someone that. Red hair? And –

Victor had very softly sucked in a breath. Uncle Rudy then, someone he must have known back in Britain, a neighbour? A friendly shop owner?

He can’t−

Wait.

Uncle Rudy had been there, like a beacon when Victor had felt cold and wet. When was that? A friendly acquaintance then, who protected Victor when he was a child. Had he fallen in a pond? 

The elder Trevors had returned to the room only to find their son in the middle of his ruminations. There had been hesitation, and questions, and whinging, until they’d told him.

The whole fiasco with the Holmeses.

How Victor had met Sherlock Holmes in kindergarten, how they’d bonded quickly in the way children do, how he quickly became a fixture in the Holmes estate and household, how Sherlock’s sister had persuaded the gardener and the nanny to knock him unconscious and lower him down the well, how Uncle Rudy had found him, how his parents had fled with him to France; Victor Trevor being officially missing – presumed dead back home.

Victor had lain in bed awake that night and played the scenes that had become so fresh in his memory since, though how much of it was reconstructed he couldn’t be sure. He wondered if Redbeard and Yellowbeard were the source of his wanderlust, as he imagined himself a pirate sailing around the world, his friend at his side. His former friend, who now was a famous detective. Did Sherlock remember him? Did the ‘death’ of his childhood friend make it into the list of prospective cases?

He wondered what growing up with Sherlock would have been like, what living in Britain, going to Cambridge (he can dream) would have been like.

He was seized by a sudden urge to know the man, reach out to him, contact him. He had a public email, he could always feign a case. He wanted to know him. Victor Trevor wanted to know Sherlock Holmes, learn about The Science of Deduction and the way he put together notes that sound moving and soaring at the same time on his violin.  

Then he felt an abject terror, which squeezed his heart and his brain and made it hard to breathe and caused him to laugh out loud. He was still in his chair, on his computer, on his knees in his head. How was this man whom he’d never met able to instil such fear, the fear that if Sherlock did meet him, he’d find him utterly ordinary. Pedestrian, boring, dull, stupid, dumb.

No, better to watch from afar then, imagine what life must have been like. After all they weren’t really friends.

But no matter what Victor told himself he’d read the articles and the blogs and every scrap of information he could find about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson with more fervour than before. He contemplated commenting on John’s blog, and perhaps making a few deductions of his own on Sherlock’s, but he never did, for if he did then the temptation to reveal himself and reach out would have been too great.

Victor remembers how he’d regretted that decision, how he’d cried, when news of Sherlock’s jump made the front pages. He’d dropped his morning cuppa and the newspaper and sobbed in the middle of his living room, and cried and knelt and felt as if his heart was being wrenched out of his chest. He hadn’t really known him, but he felt like he’d lost a part of him that day. It was irrational, he knew, yet for that day and many more days after that he sobbed spontaneously; everything’d set him off, the tea set, Chemistry books, clinics, police cars.

But Sherlock had come back, he’d come back and it was as if the sun was shining again. And Victor had opened his box, his Sherlock box, and went back to reading the blogs, and waiting for new cases, new treatises.

The desire to contact him and get to know him had gotten even stronger.

Victor tells himself to wait, that the time will come, even as he knows it’s improbable. Sherlock is selective, but there are enough singular cases in Britain alone. Sherlock won’t come here, and Victor won’t go there.

The wild garlic blossoms are most pleasing, fragrant with a hint of spice. Familiar but just dangerous enough. Good for a pesto, or coriander chutney, or just raw in a salad or cheese toastie. It grows abundantly on The Other Side too, does Sherlock care for it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the second chapter! Please let me know what you think!


	3. French Lemonade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so I'm finally updating, sorry for the long wait! I wrote this while I had some time on my hands, tried switching POVs, not sure if it worked. I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but after not knowing what to do with it I've decided to post it. I might still edit it sometime later though. So...hope you enjoy! Concrit welcome! PS next update will most likely not be until December. Thank you!

They’re going to France, apparently. 

John had woken up that morning to find his bag packed and Sherlock waiting by the door, impatiently tapping his foot. 

“Quickly now, John.” 

Well, pardon him for not being having his bags packed and being perpetually dressed to leave. But as usual John couldn’t find it in him to truly be irritated; Sherlock didn’t annoy on purpose, Sherlock was just being Sherlock. In Sherlock’s world, nothing mattered more than The Work, and all other preparations and legwork for it just part and parcel and should be done as efficiently as possible. Besides, John did crave an exciting life, and what could be more exciting than leaving for who−knows−where first thing in the morning (granted, it’s just France, but still)? 

What’s not so exciting is sitting in the 8.31 to Paris with an empty stomach and an unappetising breakfast (is there any other type of breakfast on the train?), and a pensive train partner. Sherlock, as usual, was being in his “deep in thought” self, hands steepled, collar turned up, and deerstalker pulled down if he actually deigned to wear the deerstalker. 

Anyone walking past might mistake Sherlock for a model posing in a photoshoot for some high−end brand, with his pale skin and cheekbones. In fact, John secretly thinks Sherlock knows exactly the effect he has on others and poses to look cool and mysterious. He could just hear Sherlock’s vehement denial in his head, but everyone knows Sherlock can be very vain sometimes.   
Oh well, he’d have to entertain himself; he does that a lot with Sherlock actually, not that he minds, but sometimes he likes to, you know, have some human company to talk to, small talk, weather, jobs, politics, that sort of thing. 

Gare du Nord is every bit as big and grand as St Pancras, but John’s hardly had the time to admire as Sherlock’s just briskly walking through with nary a glance at him, much less at their surroundings. Must be an intriguing case then. 

But lo and behold, an hour later and they’re sitting at a pavement café somewhere in Paris sipping coffee and nibbling pastries. John knows Sherlock has his own ways of working, it’s hardly the first time John has been bewildered and left trailing as Sherlock inexplicably rushes off after some time seemingly looking at nothing. But this is actually quite nice, he can mistake them being on a holiday; beautiful city, beautiful food. 

Although he admits it’ll be better if they make their first impression on the locals a better one, considering all the ill blood across the Channel. He wishes Sherlock would stop blatantly staring at the bloke across the table, clearly deducing everything about his life from the time he peed his trousers in primary school to when he lost his virginity from the way he grasped his glass and his brand of shoes. Or some such. 

As if reading John’s mind, said bloke settles his glass on the table and looks down at his shoes. Sherlock continues his Stare of Deduction, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve got no secrets left, and John feels pity for the bloke. Though he can’t help but look forward to hearing Sherlock’s deductions afterwards, he couldn’t help it, they’re inadvertently funny, especially since Sherlock delivers them in such a deadpan way. Maybe that’s what Sherlock goes for, he could be a comedian if his jokes weren’t on people. John almost feels bad for liking his deductions, but no harm done if the people aren’t around to hear them. 

The bloke continues shifting, clearly uncomfortably, and good thing the waiter comes at that moment, because John feels like with the increasing stare, and the shifting, and the stare, and the shifting, that something might just happen. And while he likes excitement, he doesn’t think being arrested for fighting in a foreign country is a good idea. 

“Bonjour, messieurs, voudriez vous commander?”

Bloke across the table seems almost relieved to be a few notes lighter in his wallet, “Oui, un de plus citron pressé, s’il vous plait.”

“Et vous, messieurs?”

The waiter turns towards John and Sherlock then; and John finds himself tongue tied because the time taken for the other bloke to order was clearly not enough for him to remember what little French he learnt in school. Turning to Sherlock, John finds no help as Sherlock seems oblivious to his silent plea while continuing in his Stare of Deduction. 

The waiter’s smile starts to turn knowing, and maybe John is being overly sensitive, but his smile seems patronising, like he knows exactly what’s wrong but he won’t speak in English because he likes watching British tourists squirm. 

Then John feels guilty for being so anglocentric, and blurts out the only things he remembers, “Un café et un croissant, merci.” And mercifully the waiter just nods and walks away. 

But the awkward situation turns into another awkward situation as they all sit around waiting for their orders to arrive while pretending that the other bloke is just itching to run away. John wonders why he doesn’t leave. Maybe he’s possessive of the table and wants them to leave instead. The French can be funny sometimes. 

Or maybe he’s got nowhere else to be and all the other tables in all the cafes seem full with no turnover, so he can’t just up and find another table. Or maybe he’s waiting for someone, who’s going to turn up now, who happens to be the most gorgeous French woman to ever leave, and she’s going to be charmed by Sherlock, then rebuffed, then she’ll turn towards Sherlock’s stalwart friend. Not as tall, sure, but sturdier. And then John can leave Sherlock to do Sherlock things while John gets some in a romantic hotel somewhere with some champagne. 

Clearly the frustration is getting to him. 

Thankfully their orders arrive then, and Sherlock’s stare is broken by a glorious piece of buttery croissant, and regardless that it’s John’s order he grabs it before John even comprehends what’s happened.   
The bloke’s got something interesting though, like a deconstructed lemonade. Fancy stuff, that, something you’ll find in France, obviously, where they like new snazzy things. John watches, unaware that now he’s the one staring at the bloke (or rather, his hands), as the lemon is squeezed over the ice, a sugar cube is added, and it’s all stirred with a long stirring rod. 

With Sherlock not occupied by croissant, the bloke seems to have relaxed and gone back to drawing when they’re all startled at Sherlock pushing the chair back and taking off. 

John’s just about to follow him when he remembers the bill; he frantically digs into his pockets to throw a few notes on the table. He looks up then, but Sherlock’s nowhere in sight. 

Typical. Now John’s stuck here not knowing what to do. The bloke’s now staring wide−eyed up at him, so John gives an awkward smile and walks away. 

Damn Sherlock. Now he’s in Paris with no gorgeous woman and no direction to head in. Not even a hotel where he can just relax in the tub while waiting for Sherlock. 

Damn him, damn him.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't live in either country, and haven't been there either, all descriptions can only come from research, so if I get anything wrong, please tell me! Updates may not be frequent; I kind of have half the story planned out in my head, but I'm not a really good writer and take really long to write something I deem satisfactory. So sorry! Please be patient with me. I'm sorry the first chapter is so short! It's kind of an intro and sounded longer in my head.


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